Defending the Sacred Honor of The South

Crystal Grill
423 Carrollton Ave.
Greenwood, MS






“The Mississippi Delta is the most Southern place on earth.”
-- James C. Cobb


I have lots of reasons I love the South.

Warm weather. NASCAR. College football. Great music. Ole Miss sorority girls.

But as great as all those things are, it’s Southern cooking that gets me most excited.

The Crystal Grill here in Greenwood on the outskirts of that “most Southern place on earth”, is one of the best places to discover the delicacies of the old Confederacy such as catfish, tamales, turnip greens, gumbo and -- most important of all -- pie.

Southerners have been coming to the corner of Lamar St. and Carrollton Ave. to eat for nearly a century.

At one point during the heyday of the locomotive, railroad workers and tourists alike would come over to the Crystal Grill from Greenwood’s railroad depot across the street at all hours of the night.

“Never sleep.” That was the mantra of the old Crystal Grill when it stayed open until 4am.

Here in the 21st Century, Amtrak’s “City of New Orleans” (immortalized by Steve Goodman, Arlo Guthrie, Willie Nelson and Johnny Cash) only makes one stop per day, so the hours at Crystal Grill have reverted to conform to the more normal schedule of Southern diners.

While the hours may have shrunk over the years, the restaurant has expanded, taking up a whole city block of connected rooms filled with locals chatting about Greenwood gossip.

As an out-of-towner, you get the feeling that every last resident of this city knows the Crystal Grill is a world class dining destination -- and they all take full advantage of their good fortune.

The food options here are vast and a bit overwhelming.

Unfortunately, the same cannot be said for the beer selection.

Coors Light. Bud Light. Miller Lite.

Yuck.

I opted for the Coors version of watered-down, tasteless, mass produced yellow fizz.

Unfortunately for me, Mississippi is one of the last holdouts in the craft beer revolution.

But nobody comes to the Crystal Grill to drink beer. Folks come here to eat!

I began my feeding frenzy with that quintessential Delta snack, the hot tamale.

Nobody knows exactly how a Mexican food originated as a staple here in the Delta. Most folks here are black or white.

Mexican? Not so much.

But it is safe to assume that some Mexican migrants may have found their way into the Delta to help with the cotton crop over a century ago -- and brought a recipe along that black and white Southerners have perfected into their very own Southern specialty.

You’ll find little roadside shacks selling tamales all over the Delta.

But the tamales here at the Crystal Grill are the best I’ve ever tried.

Wrapped snuggly in their corn husks, unrolling a steaming tamale is more exciting than Christmas morning.

Soft sweet corn meal gives way to a piping hot center of tender shredded beef. The entire concoction is marinated in a peppery broth, lending these tamales a subtle spicy bite that made my Coors Light taste better than it deserved.

Next came a cup of gumbo loaded with shrimp, crab meat and even a few Mississippi Gulf Coast oysters. Chock full of okra, spice and goodness, this is one of the best cups of gumbo I’ve tried in the Magnolia State.

Of course you can’t have gumbo without bread. The Crystal Grill brings out two varieties -- both equally fresh and warm from the oven -- and addictive.

The soft yeast rolls come from a decades old Greenwood recipe.

The firm but sweet corn muffins melted my pat of butter on contact.

By this point, my hunger was long gone. But my Chrystal Grill lunch was just getting started.

Classic Southern lunchroom style, the menu lets you choose a meat and two vegetables.

I opted for fried catfish, crisp and seasoned to perfection.

My dining companion scored some of the best fried chicken either of us had ever tried.

But the vegetables were the stars of the show.

Turnip greens, earthy and bitter yet sweetened with Southern love and pig fat.

Southerners love to cook their vegetables in pork fat or deep fry them, under the theory that there is only one way to make healthy food taste good -- make it less healthy.

As a devout follower of that school of vegetable thought, I had to try something called “fried broccoli”.

Even world renowned broccoli frowner President George H. W. Bush could eat this stuff.

It turns out that fried broccoli doesn’t involve much broccoli after all. More like a breaded and fried cheese stick with a few bits of green vegetable matter stuffed inside.

In other words, fried broccoli is delicious!

Under any other circumstance, after consuming this much food, I’d ask for the check and be on my way.

Not at the Crystal Grill. Because when you dine here, you get pie.

It’s compulsory.

I’m not saying they’ll lock you up in the Leflore County Jail if you refuse to indulge, but it is included in the price of your meal.

And it indeed would be a crime against man and nature to skip out on dessert at the Crystal Grill. This place has earned a well-deserved decade’s old reputation for the best pie in the great state of Mississippi.

You get three choices: chocolate meringue, coconut meringue or lemon ice box.

You really can’t go wrong.

The lemon ice box pie was cool, sweet and tart with a refreshing lemon zest.

The chocolate meringue was a mile high tower of goodness. The meringue was delicate and sweet and elegantly yielded to my folk as it slid down toward the cool chocolate below.

If you are a chocoholic like me, you will not be disappointed. Trust me.

If ever there were a dining destination that needed to be immortalized in my vast t-shirt collection, the Crystal Grill was it.

This place represents everything I love about the South. Great food. Downhome charm. Friendly hospitality. And a patient deliberateness to appreciate the finest life has to offer.

I couldn’t help but notice the irony that as I was appreciating all that is wonderful about the old Confederacy in the form of a single meal, a controversy was raging on the news about that ultimate symbol of the South, the Confederate Flag.

Southerners everywhere are being forced by a mob of Leftists and uppity Yankees to make a choice -- abandon the symbol that has represented their homeland in some sort of futile peace offering -- or stand to defend its honor in the face of unprecedented hatred and bullying.

While it seems like most of the politicians across the South have chosen to reenact the surrender at Appomattox, it is left to the silent majority of Southerners to articulate the value of their heritage.

For many Southerners, the flag is simply an iconic symbol of home -- and everything it stands for. From sweet tea to SEC tailgate parties.

For others, there is a deeper meaning.

The flag represents resistance to an overbearing federal government that now injects itself into every nook and cranny of our lives.

Am I the only one who noticed the irony that during this same week five unelected, unaccountable robed jackasses in Washington DC just changed the 10,000 year old definition of marriage by federal fiat?

If Sherman and Grant could see what the Federal Government they fought for has become, I’d like to imagine they’d be so ashamed they’d strip off their blue uniforms on the spot and joint the “Lost Cause”.

But why is the burden of proof on Southerners to defend their flag?

Shouldn’t the debate be centered on why Leftists and uppity Yankees hate the South -- and want to stamp out everything it stands for?

To them it represents a reprehensible ideology and way of life -- one where folks get along with each other just fine over a plate of tamales and fried chicken.

Where people don’t see the need to depend upon the kindness of politicians.

Independence. Traditional values. Faith. Confident appreciation of what works.

Defiance.

That’s what they hate.

They hate that the South is superior to the North in every way that matters. From politics to economics to weather to football to fried chicken.

They are envious of a people that can get along fine without them.

And if you think throwing the Confederate flag into a modern day auto-da-fé in a sacrificial offering will appease them, you are wrong.

Dead wrong.

This is just the warning shot on a second Yankee invasion.

The Leftists and uppity Yankees won’t stop until everyone lives and thinks like they do.

Give up the guns and religion you cling to. Your future is food stamps, Obamacare, gay weddings and Dunkin Donuts.

That’s why places like the Crystal Grill are an endangered yet cherished reminder of what makes the South great.

And that’s why my flag is still hanging. And why I bought the shirt.

Rating: Bought the Shirt!

I Sold My Soul to the Devil…And all I Got Was this T-Shirt

Abe’s Bar-B-Q
616 State Street
Clarksdale, MS





“I went to the crossroad
Fell down on my knees”
  -- Robert Johnson, Cross Road Blues


From Robert Johnson to Led Zeppelin to Eric Clapton, the image of a drifter standing in the moonlight at the crossing of two lonely roads has been elevated to an iconic symbolism.

Clarksdale, Mississippi and Abe’s Bar-B-Q, literally standing at the crossing of the state’s two “Blues Highways”, are both inextricably linked to the legend of “The Crossroads”.

Of course the most famous crossroads story of all is tied to Robert Johnson himself, that pioneer of Mississippi Delta blues.

Johnson grew up on the Abbay and Leatherman Plantation, which still operates today about 30 miles north of here.

Interested in music at a young age, Johnson would bug blues-playing share croppers on the plantation like Son House to show him licks on harmonica and guitar.

There was just one problem.

Basically, young Robert Johnson sucked.

Around 1930, Johnson moved away.

When he returned a few years later, Robert Johnson had transformed into the greatest blues guitarist on earth.

To the Folks around the Abbay and Leatherman Plantation there could be but one explanation for Johnson’s newfound proficiency…

…he must have sold his soul at some Delta crossroads in a late night deal with the devil.

Of course. What else could it be?

I guess it never occurred to these folks that combining God-given talent with lots and lots of hard work and practice might be a more logical conclusion.

You can see the roots of collectivism in this thinking: your successes in life can’t possibly be legitimately earned, so therefore the rest of us have a rightful claim on the fruits of your labor.

But I digress.

Besides, the whole “sold his soul to the devil at the crossroads” thing sounds a whole lot cooler.

Apparently, the Clarksdale Chamber of Congress agrees.

They have erected a gaudy monument of cris-crossing blue guitars in the middle of a median at the center of town where Highways 61 and 49 intersect, commemorating the spot where Johnson did his supposed soul bartering.

In a way I understand the logic.

Highway 61, “The Blues Highway”, has been immortalized in countless blues songs from Mississippi Fred McDowell to Bob Dylan.

Same with Highway 49, as sung by everyone from Big Joe Williams to Mick Jagger.

These two iconic roads cut straight through the heart of the Mississippi Delta where the blues was born and intersect here in Clarksdale.

In front of Mid-South Farm Supply, Krosstown Pawn Shop and Church’s Chicken.

Somehow, I doubt this is where Robert Johnson would actually choose to sell his soul to the devil.

All I know is if I were going to do some dealin’ with the devil, I’d want a bit more privacy, like on some lonely crossroads out in the country.

But then again, maybe the devil was hungry.

If so, this urban crossroads in the heart of Clarksdale wouldn’t be such a bad place to hang out.

Even in Robert Johnson’s day, Abe Davis, a Lebanese immigrant, was smoking and slicing pork right here in Clarksdale.

Now run by Abe’s sons and literally sitting under the shadow of the Chamber’s “Crossroads” Monument, Abe’s Bar-B-Q remains one of Mississippi’s top roadside culinary destinations.

The pork here is smoked over hickory for six hours, which is just long enough to melt the fat and cartilage into the meat, but not long enough to achieve that pull apart tenderness most barbeque masters seek.

But Abe’s solves that issue by slicing the smoked pork shoulders super thin and grilling the pork shavings on the flat top.

The result is crispy, delicate barbeque topped with a vinegary/ketchupy sauce.

Delicious. Especially as a sandwich.

The barbeque sandwich is a double-decker, kinda like a Big Mac, with alternating layers of bread, pork, sauce and cole slaw.

The sauce adds a zesty tang. The slaw a crunchy, cool bite. The squooshy fresh buns hold it all together.

But man cannot live on barbeque alone.

You can’t visit the Mississippi Delta without trying some local tamales.

Tamales? In Mississippi?

There aren’t any Mexicans in Mississippi!

Nope. And never have been.

Nobody knows where the Delta tradition of tamales originated. But I do know one thing.

Abe’s tamales are among the best.

Starchy corn meal filled with moist beef, Abe’s tamales are best when slathered with its signature meaty chili.

Some top-notch onion rings on the side and a cold Coors Light long neck to wash it all down, Abe’s Bar-B-Q was a highlight of my trip to the Delta.

It was so good, I thought about how I’d give ANYTHING to get a replica of the Abe’s Bar-B-Q/Crossroads t-shirt my waitress was wearing.

Well, just about anything.

I’m not saying I’d sell my soul to the devil for a t-shirt, but I’m glad I didn’t have to.

Rating: Bought the Shirt!

Succumbing to the Self Righteously Hip Chicago Dog

Gene and Jude’s
2720 River Rd.
River Grove, IL





Chicago is famous for many things.

The world’s busiest airport. The country’s tallest building.

America’s first Marxist president.

And the Chicago hot dog. Of course.

Gene & Jude’s out here in the suburbs just south of O’Hare Airport was one of the earliest purveyors of Chicago’s topping-laden meat tube.

In Chicago, it’s become a hipster cliché to shun ketchup on hot dogs.

To a Chicagoan, someone who puts ketchup on hot dogs is like that drinker who prefers White Zinfandel. Or that tourist who won’t turn off his cell phone ringer on the “el”.

Or that Wrigley Field bleacher bum who refuses to throw back an opposing team home run ball. Despite the torrent of drunken boos and profanity.

In other words, ketchup is for the uncouth, unhip and unsophisticated.

Nobody wants to be THAT guy.

As a hot dog connoisseur who has been known to enjoy a bit of ketchup from time to time, I find this “holier than thou” hot dog ideology to be a bit tiresome.

It’s a freaking hot dog, for cripe’s sake.

It’s not high society cuisine.

I’m a firm believer that folks should be free to put whatever they want on their processed meat without fear of being damned to hell for an eternity of living off nothing but McDonalds Happy Meals.

That being said, I’m still a firm believer in “When in Rome” dining.

When in Chicago, go ahead and eat your hot dog as Chicagoans do.

Most of the famous Chicago hot dog joints serve them “dragged through the garden”, stacking peppers, onions, tomatoes, pickles, cucumbers, celery salt and other assorted condiments into an unwieldy pile of produce -- completely overshadowing the meat.

Gene and Jude’s sticks to a simpler -- and I believe better -- formula.

The condiments here are freshly chopped onion, relish, sport peppers and mustard.

Oh, and French fries too.

Yeah, the fries are piled on top of the dog just like all the other condiments.

But, no. You can NOT have ketchup.

Not even for your fries.

Legend has it that a Gene and Jude’s employee once smuggled a few packets of ketchup into the kitchen, probably because he was tired of saying no to all those uncouth out-of-towners asking for it.

Once the owner discovered the contraband ketchup packets, he tossed them all into the dumpster out back.

Okay. I won’t make that mistake.

Definitely don’t want to be THAT guy.

The fries are fresh cut every day and top notch -- even without any ketchup.

I’m still not sure if the fries are meant to be eaten separate or as a hot dog topping, like a Primanti Brothers Pittsburgh sandwich.

When you first unwrap your hot dog, you can’t even see it under the mountain of fries.

Eventually, I put enough of a dent in my French fried mountain that I could find my hot dog and lift it to my mouth for my first bite.

Delicious.

The relish and onion add a nice tangy crunch while the mustard compliments the meaty snap of the freshly steamed dog.

Then every few bites you get an eye opening jolt of crunchy spice when you bite into one of those famous green “sport” peppers.

It’s a lot of simultaneous flavor action, no doubt. But the star of the show – the famous Vienna Beef Chicago hot dog -- never gets lost in all the commotion.

Here at Gene and Jude’s, you can order a single or a double dog.

I got both. Of course.

The double is a bit cumbersome, but it does, if you can manage it, provide a nicer meat-to-condiment-and-fry ratio.

Inexplicably, Gene and Jude’s also sells processed industrial corn tamales.

Even more inexplicably, I ordered one. On top of my orgy of hot dogs, fries and Chicago condiments.

Produced by the Supreme Tamale Company, Inc. here in Chicago and served in a mass-produced plastic wrapper, the tamale was barely edible.

Slimy on the outside but dry as corn meal on the inside, it tasted like an oddly meat-flavored hunk of dough.

After a few bites, I tossed it in the trash. Definitely not the house specialty.

Ninety percent of the business here is take out.

If fact, there is no place to sit. Just a ledge along the window facing the expansive parking lot.

Perfect for Suit757.

I’ll be doing enough sitting the rest of the evening while crammed into seat 14A on a United Express regional jet.

After polishing off my last bite of dog and fries, I felt pretty good about myself. I just consumed several genuine Chicago hot dogs. Didn’t deviate on a single condiment.

Now I see why Chicagoans get so smug about their hot dogs. They are pretty darn good done the Chicago way.

Particularly the Gene and Jude’s way.

I walked out into the parking lot feeling hip. In the know. An insider.

The thought of that sweet tomatoey paste never even crossed my mind.

Nope. I felt darn near self-righteous. No ketchup for me.

Suit757 will never be THAT guy again.

Rating: Seriously Thought About Buying Shirt.